


There's Never a Wish Better Than This

by jsea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Claudia Stilinski Feels, Coming of Age, Domesticity, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Growing Up, M/M, Mature Stiles, Mentioned Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slice of Life, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsea/pseuds/jsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sheriff Stilinski has a conversation with his son while at the family lake house. Plus one time he has a conversation with his (grand)son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Never a Wish Better Than This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Venivincere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venivincere/gifts).



> Written for the lovely Venivincere. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it for you! I did my best to distill the essence of your prompts and favorite tropes into something that I hope you love. 
> 
> Thanks to L and P for being wonderful and betaing this for me. Also huge thanks to the few other people who held my hand and listened patiently as I talked through some of the trickier parts of writing this story. You all know who you are.

**~Father to Child~**

Claudia kisses him on the forehead as she hands him a cold beer in a koozie that reads “growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional” in bright green text on the cracking white foam.

“Thanks babe,” he says, pulling her against him to give her a proper kiss; a stolen thing because their kid is a nosy little shit and too damn sharp for his own good. They aren’t quite ready to start answering _those_ types of questions yet.

She smiles against his lips and then pulls back, absently brushing her long hair over her shoulder and away from her narrow face. In the midafternoon light her brown eyes sparkle, almost as copper as her hair.

“You should go help your son,” she says, sending a pointedly amused glance over John’s shoulder before she wanders away from him. She heads back up to the cabin, where a book and a glass of ice tea are waiting on her return, and he can’t help but stare after her for a moment, riveted by the subtle sway of her hips in her blue and white sundress.

He turns around then, to go deal with whatever trouble his kid has gotten into, and he has to hold back a laugh when he sees his son helplessly tangled in fishing wire. It ends up taking about twenty minutes for John to sort through the mess, but he finally manages to get the old fishing pole set up despite the “help”. Kind of a miracle in and of itself, considering it’s the same pole he’d used when his dad used to bring _him_ here as a kid.

They sit on the edge of the dock together, father and son, bare feet dangling in the cool water of the small lake, John lazily sipping his beer. A faded red and white bobber floats about five feet out, its image reflected on the surface of the dark water.

“So what do you think?” John asks, after a few minutes of uncharacteristic silence from next to him. He eyes the little bobber that's still in exactly the same spot; there hasn't been a single enthusiastic gesture to so much as twitch it, since they sat down. “You like it out here, right?”

“It’s pretty ok.”

“Just pretty ok?” He raises an eyebrow at the unenthusiastic response.

That gets him a shrug, and John sighs. “What’s up with you kiddo? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been a little mopey lately.”

“’M _not_ mopey.”

“Uh huh. So nothing’s been bothering you lately? How’s school? I know kindergarten can be kind of scary.” That gets him a dejected sigh in response, and _jackpot_. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

The silence that greets his question lasts an alarming 30 seconds before the torrent of words start up like a dam cracking open.

“It’s…” A lip wibble, “my name. I know it’s Grandpa’s name too, but none of my friends can say it, not even Miss K when she's calling everybody's names in the morning to see who's there. She just waits until the end and asks whose name she didn’t say. Then the other kids laugh at me, or they pretend to ignore me, ‘cause I can’t really be there if the teacher doesn’t say so.”

Huh. John blinks. This wasn’t what he was expecting, although in hindsight he thinks he and Claudia should have thought of this long before now. They’d just been so caught up in the joy of being in love, in the pure elation of _having a child together_. John can admit now that maybe they hadn’t given enough thought to how their son would wear his grandfather’s name.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He wants to pass the problem off to Claudia, because she always seems to know how to deal with these types of problems; she has the quick mind and sensitivity to say exactly the right things. John? Well, he can play criminals like a fine tuned-fiddle. There’s a reason he’s running for sheriff in the upcoming election, but those tactics don’t do him any good here.

 _This is his kid_ though, and he's the one here right now. He licks his lips to buy another few seconds, before finally speaking. “When I was your age, guess how many “Johns” were in my class?”

“Ummm?” Wide brown eyes blink up at him in confusion.

“Four. There were _four_ other kids with my name. And you know what? I hated it. Teachers always got us confused, and I thought it was the worst thing ever. It was like I wasn’t important or special. So look, kid…” He pauses, softens his voice. “I know your feelings are hurt, but at least you’re unique. There will only ever be one of you, and I bet your other classmates won’t always be able to say that.”

“Huh.” The word sounds doubtful, but John can practically see the wheels turning in response to his words.

“But uh…you know, that doesn’t mean you have to always use your whole name, either. Maybe you could pick a nickname? Something easier for your teachers and friends to use?”

“Mommy won’t be mad?”

“Kiddo, your mom will always love you no matter what. Just because you’re named after her dad, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want you to be happy too. Besides, _unique_ remember?” After a moment John adds, “And you will _always_ be a Stilinski, no matter what.”

“Always a Stilinski,” his son agrees with a determined nod, and then after a moment he brightens. His little hands tighten on the fishing pole still in his grasp, causing the little bobber to dance across the water. What ‘bout...Stiles!?”

John lets out a bark of laughter at that, and pats his kid on the shoulder, nodding because yeah, _his son_. Before he can say anything else though, the bobber jerks violently and then dips dramatically under the water.

“Dad! I think I got a big fish!” Small hands wind at the reel desperately, the flimsy plastic clicking with each jerky rotation. He’s not making much progress, and it’s all John can do to not reach out and help. It doesn’t stop him from giving advice, though.

“Okay, okay, you gotta slow it down,” he instructs. “Smooth and steady. Looks like you hooked him pretty good, so he’s not going anywhere. Let him wear himself out ok? If you force him, you’re just gonna break your line or the pole.”

It takes almost ten minutes to bring the fish in, a large catfish that John cleans-- to a chorus of disgusted noises throughout the entire process-- and Claudia fries up for dinner.

A few weeks later, a Polaroid picture of a smiling boy, his proud father, and a catfish dangling from the end of a cheap plastic fishing pole, is carefully added to the family scrapbook. “Stiles. Age 5. At the Stilinski Cabin,” is written in Claudia’s careful handwriting underneath.

**~Father to Tween~**

John grimaces as he pops the top of the amber colored bottle. He tosses the opener to Stiles, who fumbles and drops it. He has to dive madly for the little piece of metal before it falls into the lake.

John shakes his head, despite himself, and can’t help a faint smile when Stiles grins back at him for the first time in what feels like forever. It makes his heart clench a little, and he takes a swig of his drink to cover the surge of emotion.

The root beer is cold at least, even if it doesn’t satisfy his craving for alcohol. It’s almost worth it for the relieved look his son sends him when he thinks that John isn’t looking, though. And ok, maybe he’d been a little heavy-handed with the alcohol lately, but…

Well. It’s been a tough year. For both of them.

When Stiles clumsily lobs the bottle opener back at him, John sets it on top of the small bright red cooler sitting innocuously against the whitewashed wood of the dock. They’d brought the cooler down from the cabin with them, full of more root beer and a couple of store-bought sandwiches, poignant reminders of the fact that no one is at the cabin making their favorite food for lunch, or waiting to bring them fresh drinks, served with a kiss-- on the cheek for Stiles, on the lips for him.

He swallows and deliberately looks away, instead choosing to pay attention to whatever Stiles is getting into. Even at ten years old, Stiles shouldn’t be left to his own devices for too long.

He's fine though, now sitting cross-legged at the end of the dock, working on assembling the brand new fishing pole they’d bought from the gas station and tackle shop just down the road. John’s old childhood fishing pole had finally given up the ghost the year before-- and isn’t that just bitterly ironic -- so they’d bought this one to replace it, a sleek metal thing. They also picked up a heavy modern reel, not yet attached, that Stiles seems riveted by.

John is tempted to offer to help him set the thing up, but he holds his tongue. His kid has grown up so much that it almost scares him. He has a hard time remembering that Stiles is barely ten, sometimes; he’s old enough to know when to ask for help though, so John watches and waits as Stiles continues with his somewhat aimless poking and prodding.

It takes another ten minutes before Stiles gets the pole put together and in working order, and he proudly marches over to show John, dark eyes pleading for the approval that John knows he’s been withholding too much of lately. Not intentionally. Of course not, but... things seem to get away from him a lot more than he wants.

Heart in his throat, he carefully inspects it, running his fingers over the smooth metal and testing the connection between the reel and rod, subtly tightening it just to be sure.

“Looks great, kid. I don’t think I could have done a better job myself.” He smiles and hands it back. “Now lets see if we can’t get a hook on this thing. I’m counting on you to catch us some dinner.”

He’s grateful that his voice comes out sounding even and normal.

Stiles beams, his slender shoulders relaxing at the praise.

“Ok,” John says, digging into the tackle box that Stiles lugs over. “I’m gonna show you how to tie the hook on the line.” John sits on the edge of his chair, pole balanced between his legs. “This is a knot _my_ dad taught me. It’s called,” he pauses and looks at Stiles, whose face is scrunched in concentration, attention wholly focused on John’s hands. He licks his lips and says, voice very serious. “The Six-turn San Diego Jam.”

Stiles blinks, startled, and then they’re both inexplicably laughing, the undercurrent of heavy sadness lifting from around them like a fog dissipating under the sun. It takes a full two or three minutes before they’re both calm enough for John to tie the knot under Stiles’ watchful gaze, and then he bites the hook off again. His teeth easily cut through the clear fishing wire, before he offers the new end and hook to Stiles for him to try. “Your turn, kiddo.” And there is absolutely nothing forced about the pride he feels when Stiles gets it right on the first try.

John sits back in his seat when the pole is set up, the hook threaded through a plastic worm. He’d offered to tie the bobber onto this pole as well, but Stiles had shaken his head determinedly, saying he wasn’t a little kid anymore. John couldn’t disagree.

Stiles clumsily casts the line out into the depths of the lake, clearly not used to the more advanced mechanics of the new pole, although it still goes further than the five foot range that the old plastic rod could manage. Satisfied, Stiles plops down onto the edge of the dock, body tense in expectation that slowly fades as minutes go by without any bites. The water level is particularly low at the moment, so his absently swishing feet barely manage to graze the water, little ripples spreading out in odd intervals whenever his toes do manage to brush the surface.

They don’t say anything for a long time. The only sounds around them are those of the various birds and insects, everything coalescing into a low-grade hum accompanied by the steady drumming of Stiles’ fingers on the wood of the dock. Because it’s basically impossible for him to stay completely still.

“So um. Dad,” Stiles finally says. “I was wondering…” He trails off, looking sheepish.

John groans internally, not sure he wants to know. He’s pretty sure nothing good will ever come from his son uttering those words, just like he’s equally certain he’s still got years worth of hearing them. When Stiles starts talking again, his voice comes out in a rush, as if John might be so overwhelmed by the tide of words that he’ll blindly agree to whatever Stiles wants.

“I was wondering if you could sign me up for the Math camp at the community college this summer.”

“Math camp? You don’t even like math.”

“I like math,” Stiles insists passionately. They haven’t been out here long enough, and it’s too overcast, for the red stain on his cheeks to be from the sun. When John raises an eyebrow, Stiles amends, “I like it _now_.”

“Nice try. Now, how about the truth? I know for a fact that that camp is not cheap, so if I’m gonna be paying for it, I want to know that you’re actually going to take it seriously.”

“Dad! Oh my god, I will! I Promise.”

John doesn’t say anything, because he’s long figured out that sometimes the best tactic with Stiles is to wait him out with silence. He’s not disappointed.

“Lydia was bragging about going,” Stiles finally admits, his blush deepening. “It’s really for middle school kids, but she’s doing it anyway.”

“Lydia, huh?” He’s not even going to touch the issue of middle school math being beyond Stiles. He knows better than to underestimate him. Stiles will hold his own, of that he has no doubt. And, shit, if he’s already thinking about the camp in terms of what Stiles _will be able to do_ , then there’s no point in pretending he’s not going to agree to this, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least make Stiles work for it.

There’s also the fact, a small voice whispers in his head, that this is the first thing Stiles has actually showed much interest in since…Well.

“The Martin girl?” John clarifies, voice a little rough, to break away from the painful path his thoughts are trying to turn down .

The Martins are one of Beacon Hills’ oldest families, and as Sheriff he’d been one of the first people to know when Natalie had moved back into her husband’s family house, daughter Lydia in tow. Her “husband” still lives in Los Angeles, although he comes back from time to time. Which John knows because he’s the one to answer the inevitable domestic disturbance call. He’s seen Lydia a time or two, perfectly dressed and watching with disconcertingly intelligent eyes as he patiently mediated between her parents. She must have been new to Stiles’ class this year, which explains his son’s sudden interest.

“Yes?” Stiles says, the word coming out more like a question.

“Uh huh. So you want to take this camp with her because…”

Stiles fidgets, turning around to face him, one leg pulling up to rest on the dock, instead of hanging over the edge. He looks like he’s trying to restrain himself, but it clearly doesn’t work. “She’s, like, the smartest person I’ve ever met! She pretends she’s not, but Dad! I’ve seen her notes! And she’s sooo…” Stiles trails off, eyes going unfocused and mouth slack. “She’s the most beautiful girl in the entire world, and her hair! It’s like this perfect shade of strawberry blond, but it’s basically red, and it reminds me of...” He stops, face going a little pale, like he’s just realized something. “Mom,” he finishes quietly. “Is uh, is that weird Dad?”

John has to swallow around the lump in his throat before he can answer. “Your mom was the most gorgeous woman I ever knew. So if Lydia’s like her even a little bit, well, she must be something pretty special.”

Stiles smile is tentative, but genuine. Relieved even. “So I can go to the camp then?”

“Yeah, kid. If that’s what you really want.”

Stiles fist pumps the air in excitement, and nearly drops the fishing pole into the water as he does so. “Thanks Dad! You’re the best.”

“Yeah, I try. But you better take it seriously, Lydia or not.”

“Duh.”

John shakes his head, and he bites his lip to hold back a half chuckle.

This time, when he tilts the bottle of his root beer against his lips for a sip, he doesn’t even mind that it’s not actually beer.

**~Father to Adolescent~**

John collapses into the old Adirondack chair, the wood a little more weather-roughened than he remembers. It still holds him just fine though.

“Sit,” he orders, not opening his eyes as he gestures to the chair next to him. He doesn’t need to see to know that Stiles is hovering. He can perfectly imagine the way Stiles is standing, shoulders tense and body instinctively hunched, as he straddles the line between the grass and the dock like he’s caught in some sort of limbo.

Stiles does as he asks, perching awkwardly on the edge of his chair. Everything about him, about the way he’s holding his body, is...not wrong exactly, but not right either. Stiles has always been so mobile, so full of frenetic energy. This stillness is unnerving. It’s not exactly a passive stillness either, but the coiled readiness of someone waiting to act. Or _react_.

And yet…As John turns to study him, he can also see in that stillness glimpses of the man Stiles will become, and he can’t quite help the surge of pride that he feels whenever he manages to catch one of those fleeting visions. His son is growing into someone who is thoughtful and aware, settled into his body and what it is capable of. Stiles no longer has to rely on grand gestures to make his points, because he’s got the confidence to be sure of his authority without them.

And then the pride turns to guilt.

Stiles isn’t even eighteen yet, and John is sizing him up like he does some of his deputies. Not like a father. And hasn’t that been his mistake all along?

“Stiles…” He trails off because he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to apologize, but he can’t quite get the words out, past the constant knot of fear-- and anger-- that’s taken up residence inside of him. He can’t quite get past his bubbling resentment, and not just over Mexico, but also how long it took Stiles to tell him about the supernatural in the first place.

“Dad,” Stiles acknowledges, drawing the word out and turning it into something almost foreign.

The uncertainty of it nearly undoes him, and for a selfish moment he wishes Claudia was sitting here in his place, but he doesn’t have that luxury. He’s the parent here, even if he doesn’t feel like it.

It doesn’t help that Stiles is more sure of his place in this brave new world of the supernatural than John is. It’s something he’s not sure he knows how to handle, despite how much he’s been pretending that he does, lately.

Because pretending is one of the few things he and Stiles still seem to have in common. They’re really good at it in fact, acting like things are good between them, laughing and snarking and filling in the gaps with disappointed looks that go both ways. It works for them. More or less. And maybe it’s not the healthiest way of coping, but even in the quiet of the last few weeks, there have been times when holding on to that illusion of normalcy is the only thing keeping them afloat.

John knows it’s time to break that illusion. They owe each other that much. Not that the knowing makes the doing any easier. He sighs, and reaches into the cooler sitting beside him, fishing out a beer, because he knows himself well enough to know that alcohol, at least, is not an enemy he has to worry about anymore.

He digs out a second beer and tosses it to Stiles, who nearly fumbles it. The reappearance of awkward flailing, like a switch being flipped, is a relief. It’s good to see his kid again, under all the weather-beaten edges.

“Really?” Stiles asks, sitting up straighter in his excitement. He rolls the bottle between his hands like he’s not quite sure what to do with it.

“You get one,” John warns, already knowing he’ll give in to at least one more, but at least feeling somewhat more responsible for saying it, because he’s still the dad here, dammit.

Beer in hand, Stiles finally settles more comfortably back in his chair, and John watches as he takes a too-casual swig, before promptly grimacing. “‘S good,” he rasps, voice sandpaper rough, hand batting at the air like he’s warding off help that John’s not actually offering.

John fights a laughs, and lets him keep the lie. He’s under no illusion that Stiles has never gotten drunk before, but he also doubts he’s ever tried anything other than the cheap kegs of PBR his deputies routinely confiscate from around town. He’s clearly not a fan of quality beer.

“So. This is nice.” Stiles tries hesitantly, after he gets himself under control. He’s finally settled on taking little sips of his beer every few minutes like clockwork, obviously not really liking it but also not willing to admit it. “It’s been a while since we’ve come out here.”

“Too long,” John agrees just as a crisp wind starts up seemingly from out of nowhere, the sharp tang of new soil and a hint of storm just barely noticeable, before it peters off again. It bends the new spring growth around them and licks at the exposed skin of their arms, on the edge of being too cold. It probably _is_ too cold, but sitting out here like this is just what they do. What they’ve always _done_. This is their place, where they can talk in ways that they can’t ever seem to manage at home, back in the real world. Honestly, John would almost think it’s magic, if he didn’t know what real magic looked like now. “I missed this place,” John says, and then after a beat, voice going softer he adds, “I miss spending time with you.”

Stiles flashes him a quick, small smile. “Yeah dad, me too.”

The silence settles around them again, because toppling the walls between them is a process not to be rushed, even though it feels like they’ve somehow managed to stumble on a little bit of progress despite themselves.

The air between them feels companionable as they drink their beers and get caught up in their own thoughts, the afternoon sleepy under the mottled grey and verdigris sky. Neither of them particularly feels like fishing, or doing anything other than just existing.

John is on his third beer, Stiles still nursing the dregs of his first, when he finally breaks the silence. “I hate that we don’t talk to each other anymore,” John admits, the words spilling out easier with the help of the alcohol. “Your mom would have been so much better at this.”

Stiles stiffens in surprise at the mention of his mom. “Dad,” he rasps, “I think you’re doing a great job.”

John wants to argue. He feels like he should, but instinctively knows better than to try-- Stiles will just meet him argument for argument until suddenly they’re debating the merits of curly versus straight-cut fries, and John will have no clue how they got there. That way lies disappointment and frustration, and it's the last thing they need right now. So he settles for ruffling Stiles’ hair in fond resignation, earning an annoyed huff in response. “Yeah. You’re right, kiddo. We might not have been doing so great for a while, but... Well... We seem to be doing okay _now,_ and maybe there’s nothing wrong with living in the moment and enjoying it while we can.”

“That sounds good. Really good,” Stiles agrees, giving him a tentative smile.

After neither of them says anything else for a few awkward minutes, Stiles nonchalantly reaches for the beer cooler again, obviously more for something to do more than anything else. John tries to pretend he doesn’t notice.

He still mutters, “You’re a little shit," unable to let it slide completely. He lets Stiles keep the beer; it’s so obvious that he really doesn’t like the taste, that letting him keep it-- and feel obligated to drink it-- is more of a punishment than taking it away.

“But you love me anyway!” Stiles says, beaming.

John thwaps Stiles gently across the back of the head and Stiles makes a show of flailing and rubbing at the spot as if he’s in pain, which he’s not. John knows for a fact that it takes a hell of a lot more than a light cuff to put his son down.

He wishes he didn’t know that, but he’s sort of glad that he does, anyway.

“Oh my god, dad. What the hell was that for?”

“Language, Stiles. Also, I was under the impression that that’s how your little pack showed affection for each other. Am I wrong?” It takes every ounce of his interrogation skills to keep from laughing, and it is so worth it for the wide-eyed indignation he gets in response.

And god, but the playing and teasing feels good. It feels honest and nothing like the playacting that they’ve been relying on for so long.

“That’s not... What are you…? _Oh my God._ ”

“Mmhmm. Speaking of.”

“No. Nope. Not going there.” A blush splotches across the skin of Stiles’ cheeks and throat.

It’s kind of nice to be back into familiar territory.

“So you don’t want to talk about Malia with your old man? I thought that was what I was here for? To help guide you down the road of...”

“I swear to god, Dad, for the love of all that is holy and good do not finish that sentence.”

John full out laughs, and after a moment Stiles rolls his eyes but grudgingly joins in.

The name might be different-- it’s pretty consistently been Lydia for the last seven years, although there had been a year or three where Danny’s name seemed to pop up just as often-- but this subject is an old familiar staple of their lakeside chats.

“So you like her then?” John probes when he can finally speak, because sometimes it’s hard to tell, with this new more serious Stiles. Malia’s rather _interesting_ sense of humor doesn’t exactly help either.

“Yeah. I mean. She’s…. Malia. She’s pretty, and she likes me back?”

God, to be young again, and someone liking you back was the only requirement for a relationship. It reminds him that Stiles hasn’t quite finished crossing the threshold of adulthood yet. It’s a surprisingly nice thought, because suddenly he feels needed, just a little. “She’s a nice girl,” he says, meaning it. He thinks she’s been good for Stiles, in her own way. She’s a project, something for Stiles to fix, and John… well he gets that. 

He huffs a resigned breath, and looks away from Stiles, lets his gaze stretch out across the distance. “Just make sure you’re using condoms,” he finally says, voice carefully nonchalant, half because he means it, and half...yup. _That_ is the Stiles he’s been missing.

John smiles to himself. They’re going to be ok.

**~Father to Adult~**

John lifts the hem of his fishing shirt up to his face and wipes at the thin film of sweat accumulating across his forehead. It’s unusually hot for not even technically being summer yet, but he figures he can forgive that fact. There’s something about days like this that make them feel rare and perfect. Something about the quality of the air, or the angle of the sun maybe, except here at the cabin the sensation is ten times stronger. The particular brightness of the sun bleached wood, the loamy scent of the shallow lake, the unique acoustics of the depression that the lake sits in….it all works together in a way that is both distinct and familiar. Perfectly nostalgic.

“And Derek was all “grr,” and Scott was all “GRR” and oh my god it was _hilarious_.”

The bad imitation of growling, and the flurry of motion as Stiles curls his fingers into claws to emphasize his point, breaks John out of his reverie. He nods distractedly because he has absolutely no idea what Stiles is talking about. Not that Stiles seems to notice or mind his distraction. He’s sprawled out on a new plastic and aluminum lounge chair that he’d lugged down to the waterfront with him-- and tripped over about six times in the process. He’s wearing only a pair of brightly colored swimming trunks and obnoxiously large sunglasses that cover half his face. He looks relaxed and happy, a little bit of a frat boy vibe going for him, with his hair overly gelled up, even though they’re in the middle of nowhere.

College has been good to Stiles, lending a particular sort of confidence to the way he holds himself, poise settled into his bones, no longer something to be fought for but easily accessible when needed. He finally seems to fit his skin. John’s not entirely sure if it’s a result of the "normal college experience", or if it’s something else. Maybe some final internal growth spurt that he simply hadn’t been there to see, all the supernatural debris that had been grating inside of Stiles finally finding spaces to settle into.

Whatever it is, the constant pain and fear from the early days of what John secretly-- _very_ secretly, and only somewhat jokingly-- refers to as the “Teen Wolf” era, has settled into a state of prepared readiness, clumsy fumbling and blind luck settling into self-possessed competence.

Of course, rambling dialogue is still very much a given for any version of Stiles.

“I guess you had to be there,” Stiles admits. “Anyway, Derek got over it. Probably. It... can be hard to tell sometimes… “ Stiles trails off ponderously. “It’s just that his eyebrows and his mouth sometimes send conflicting messages, you know? And even _I_ am not that good all the time. Although clearly I’m still better at speaking Derek-ese than Scott.

“Clearly,” John agrees dryly, picking up the thread of the “conversation”.

“If you think about it, it’s actually kind of sad. Considering I’ve been away at school and Scott sees Derek all the time.”

John has to bite his tongue to keep from admitting that despite probably seeing Derek more than even Scott, _he’s_ not always much better at translating Derek’s particular brand of (non-) communication. “What can I say. Not everyone is as… special as you.” Because... huh. Understanding Derek, even a little, seems to be a skill particular to Stiles, and when did that happen? Or maybe the questions he should be asking himself, is how come he hadn’t noticed it before?

“Hey, now,” Stiles says, punching him playfully in the shoulder.

John gives him an unimpressed look and Stiles grimaces, pulling his hand awkwardly away, shaking it out before redirecting the motion to comb his fingers through his hair. The gesture knocks his sunglasses off his face and musses up the careful spikes he’d spent at least fifteen minutes hogging the bathroom to accomplish. “Uh, sorry dad,” he says, twirling his sunglasses between his fingers instead of replacing them. His eyes are a vivid amber in the direct sunlight.

John snorts and rolls his eyes. “I take it the pack was glad to see you then? They didn’t forget you, or whatever nonsense it was that you were obsessing about last fall?” Stiles had put together a ten-step plan “To Not Forget the Stiles” and everything.

There’d been a PowerPoint presentation.

Stiles has the grace to look sheepish. “Nah, it was all good. Everyone was a little more...” He shrugs, but he’s got a distant look on his face that does nothing to diminish the small smile quirking the corners of his mouth, “I dunno. But hey, speaking of, when did Derek get so touchy-feely? Not that I’m complaining or anything. Because I’m not. I mean really I’d have to be insane NOT to be cool with someone like Derek all up in my business, but, ya know. It was a little surprising.”

John is surprised too. It’s still 50/50 whether Derek will flinch if John pats him on the back. He’s fine with physical contact in the context of the job, or training with the pack, or any application of violence, but not so much when it comes to affection.

Also.

“All up in your business?” He’s pretty sure his eyebrows have migrated somewhere to the vicinity of his hairline. “You know what, no. Nevermind, forget I said anything. I’d rather not think about what those words mean in the context of my best deputy and my son. Jesus, Stiles.”

Stiles smirks at him. “I mean, who wouldn’t want all up in this? High school lied to me Dad. I am officially attractive to gay guys.” There’s clearly a story behind that statement, judging by the glint in Stiles’ eye. One that John very much does not want to know.

“Kid, you are a menace,” he says, massaging his temples. “And I don’t want to know how we got from talking about Derek to you being attractive to guys.”

Stiles blinks, surprised, obviously a little perplexed himself, now that John’s pointed it out to him. “It’s, I mean, Derek... Not that he’s…”

“Hmm.” John says, when it’s clear that Stiles isn’t sure how to talk his way around the issue. A rare thing.

“Don’t _hmm_ at me. I don’t like when you hmm at me. It usually means you’ve thought of something that I’m not gonna like,” Stiles says, looking wary. He’s sitting on the edge of his chair now, leaning toward John like he can’t quite help it, despite himself. His glasses are still in his hands, and he’s playing with them almost compulsively, twirling them back and forth in 180-degree arcs. His shoulders have a pink flush them that might be an extension of the blush that’s working down his face and throat, or might just be the beginnings of a sunburn.

“I just think it’s interesting how often you talk about Derek, is all.”

Stiles does the blinking in confusion thing again, his face going temporarily slack as the gears in his head visibly start to turn. When the animation returns to his features, he says a quiet, “Oh.”

“Oh,” John agrees

“Derek...uh he’s still not really into the whole touchy-feeling thing, is he? With anyone else, I mean.”

John smiles. “You really need me to answer that?”

Stiles sort of falls back into his chair, pulling his legs up so he can sit cross-legged. He looks a little stunned, and John leans over to pat him gently on the knee.

He figures Stiles needs a minute to reorder his suddenly rocked world.

Honestly, he’s not sure how he feels about the idea of Stiles and Derek together, but he’s also not entirely surprised either. Maybe he’s always known that there was something between them, or at least he suspected it on some intuitive level. Part of his job is reading people, after all. It’s just that this doesn’t feel like any of Stiles' other love interests or crushes. Stiles doesn’t idealize Derek like he had with Lydia. And even with Malia, back in high school, Stiles had been more interested in the _idea_ of having a girlfriend than anything else.

Stiles knows the worst things about Derek, openly acknowledges Derek’s various flaws and issues, calls him out on them even. He lets Derek get away with returning the favor, too. Not to mention the way that Stiles and Derek are willing to entrust little private pieces of themselves to the other, without even seeming to realize it.

John can’t help but remember the moment he realized he’d been in love with Claudia for the first time. He’d come home to his apartment to find her already there, sorting through and doing his laundry for him. She’d even gone through and ironed all his shirts, even though he knew for a fact how much she hated doing laundry, and utterly _despised_ ironing. Except he’d been the exception to that rule, and she hadn’t even realized it. She’d just wanted to do something nice for him after what had been a stressful week.

Stiles and Derek seem to be the exceptions to each others rules too. And damn.

John turns to look back at Stiles, who is absently picking at a stray piece of plastic. When Stiles looks up to meet his eyes he’s unusually serious, posture no longer loose and relaxed. But he’s also smiling just a little, too.

“So. Derek huh?”

**~Father to Son (in Law)~**

The night is bright and cold.

The moon has finally crested the height of the trees, round and almost full in the velvet sky, partially obscured by thin wispy clouds. The air is crisp, and John is grateful for his heavy sweater and the mug of mulled wine Melissa slipped into his hands a few minutes earlier.

He can’t help but smile as he remembers the way her fingers had brushed against his as he’d taken the mug. Or the way no one had even blinked when she’d casually deposited her belongings alongside his in the main bedroom of the cabin.

For a moment he’d been terrified that it would feel wrong, seeing her in a space that he’d only ever shared with one other woman, but that sensation had never come. Instead it had just felt right. The dress she’d hung up in the closet, the rich blue fabric of it a stark contrast to his starched white dress shirts, had felt like a missing puzzle piece slotting into place.

If money had changed hands over her choice of room, he was sure he hadn’t noticed.

His feet are confident as he traverses the downhill slope toward the waters edge, the sounds of laughter and the light of the fire that Scott and Liam had built earlier, following him.

It’s been a long time since anyone other than he and Stiles have come here, but he has the feeling that he could get used to how full of life the place is.

When he finally reaches the end of the dock he doesn’t say anything, just offers a manly nod and joins Derek in looking out over the rippling water. The silence is companionable, and as the minutes tick by John’s mind starts to wander.

He imagines this scene tomorrow, the way it’ll look in the sunshine. He pictures Stiles and Derek standing here in this spot, their friends and family all gathered around them, as Deaton officiates their wedding.

If the soft look on his face is anything to go by, he thinks maybe Derek is envisioning the same thing.

A lump swells in his throat, and he has to take a sip of wine to ease the sudden ache in his chest.

‘Your parents would be so proud of you,’ he wants to say, but the words don’t come. He’s said them to Derek before, anyways. He thinks Claudia would have liked Derek too, but he doesn’t say that either. Instead, he says, “Thank you for making my son happy,” and he hope all the other things come across too.

Derek turns to look at him and his face is both serious and carefully hopeful when he nods his head once in acknowledgement. It’s a perfect echo of the expression that had been on his face the night he’d knocked on John’s door, bottle of good whiskey in hand, and asked his permission to marry Stiles.

“I’d die for him,” Derek says softly.

John laughs at that, the sound of it blending seamlessly with the laughter still drifting down from the top of the hill. “I think the point,” he finally says, “is that you live for him.”

Derek blinks, but before he can say anything, movement catches their attention.

Stiles is all tipsy, fluid movement as he jogs down toward them. “Dad!” He says, with all the exuberance of someone well on their way to being drunk. The word turns into a full-on laugh of happiness when he launches himself at Derek, plastering himself to Derek’s back, wrapping tentacle-like arms around his shoulders from behind.

Derek uses the momentum to bend forward, lifting Stiles off his feet and encouraging him to hike his legs up. The entire move looks completely effortless, but there’s something about the way Stiles just goes with it, hooking his chin over Derek’s shoulder, with the way Derek’s hands automatically hook under Stiles’ legs, that gives John a sense of familiarity. They’ve clearly done something like this enough to know exactly how their bodies fit together.

“Missed you,” Stiles says, once he’s settled, and then he hums in contentment when Derek turns his face to press a gentle kiss to Stiles’ cheek.

The gesture is intimate despite being so chaste, and John looks away. Because this is...god, this is his son. Who is getting married tomorrow. His son, who he’d taught to fish in this very spot so many years ago. Who he’d taught to drive, and shoot a gun. Who he’d sent off to college, and then off to fucking _Poland_ for a year.

And yet, despite knowing all that, he can’t for the life of him figure out how it all went by so fast, how they ended up _here_. He desperately wants his little kid again, but maybe… he can accept the adult he’s become as well.

He notices Stiles whispering quietly in Derek’s ear, the words too soft for him to hear. Which is probably for the best, if the smirk on Stiles’ face is anything to go by. It’s definitely his cue to go, though. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, and he’s got his own warm bed to look forward to. More than that, actually, and the thought sends his pulse racing despite himself.

He turns, patting Derek on the shoulder, pulling the two out of the intimate little bubble they’d begun to build around themselves. He doesn’t think they mind though. Stiles gives him a bright smile, that turns to a look of only mild annoyance when John ruffles his hair, before he finally sets back off up the hill.

“Goodnight, son,” he says over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother to specify who he’s talking to.

**~Father to Grandson~**

John smiles gratefully when Melissa hands him a cold beer in a koozie. The words “60 and sexy” are written in bright blue sparkly text on a black foam background.

“Thanks, hon,” he says, pulling her down for a quick kiss.

"Don't thank me yet," she replies as she perches on the arm of his chair. Her eyes are mischievous when she looks down at him, and he knows she's going to make him pay for the favor later. She always does.

He never minds.

He clears his throat and looks away, finally asking “Everything okay up in the cabin?”

She rolls her eyes, and he knows that her huffed laughter translates to ‘as good as can be expected," although he gets a more concrete answer in the form of Stiles finally trudging into sight. His arms are loaded down with snacks, drinks, two more duffel bags, and John doesn't even know what else.

All of which Stiles finally deposits on the ground with a grunt, before taking a minute to stretch his back out. And okay, John is only a little jealous at his ability to walk it off so easily, even if he's long come to accept, hell even _take pride_ in, the fact that he's earned every single scar and ache that he's got. 

Task complete, Stiles gives John a lazy salute in acknowledgement, and then he heads over to the wooden lounge chair where Derek is already waiting for him, shirtless and still unfairly chiseled despite the grey starting to streak at his temples. “Hey now, watch the manhandling,” Stiles gripes when Derek pulls him down to sit between his legs, and then he flushes a little when he catches John's knowing gaze.

John can only shake his head despairingly at them; it's kind of nice to know that he can still make his son blush though.

The thought only adds to his sense of contentment, and he leans back and closes his eyes. Beer in hand, Melissa's clever fingers tracing the skin of the arm he's got curled around her waist...as far as John is concerned, all is right in his world.

He’s pulled out of the moment by someone pulling insistently at the hem of his shorts.

“Gopa!” Aleksy says excitedly, “Gopa! Daddy said you could show me how to catch a fish!”

The little boy is holding the old metal fishing rod by the tip, obviously having dragged it instead of carrying it. His big brown eyes are wide and excited, and John can’t help but notice how much his grandson reminds him of Stiles as a kid, even if those are _definitely_ Hale eyebrows.

He makes a show of putting his beer down on the dock, casting Melissa a grateful smile and a wink when she shakes her head at him and stands up-- She wanders off to her own lounge chair a few feet, and a good book, away. And then John strikes! He might not be as young as he used to be, but he’s still got some life in his old bones. He scoops the little boy up in his arms to delighted squeals and carries him, fishing pole and all, to the edge of the dock. When he finally puts Aleksy down, his grandson is laughing hysterically and it takes them several long minutes before they finally settle, sitting with legs hanging off the side of the deck, feet kicking lazily in the warm water.

“Ok,” he says, picking up the pole. He inspects it carefully, only briefly looking back over his shoulder to wink back at Stiles, who is watching them fondly from the circle of Derek’s arms. “I’m gonna show you the exact same way I showed your daddy…”

He smiles at the rapt attention on his six-year-old grandson's face. He takes a deep breath, and then he starts to talk. John takes his duty to impart all of the grandfatherly wisdom in his possession very seriously, after all.

“This knot is called…”

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song “100 Years” by five for fighting.


End file.
